


You have to let me go

by Beautifulisntit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Gen, Heavy Angst, Sherlock Holmes Dies, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:27:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28013160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beautifulisntit/pseuds/Beautifulisntit
Summary: A scene of what would have happened the moment Sherlock jumped if he really died.« The deep voice settles closer to his ear as he can hear the ambulances getting closer : "It's time. You have to let me go."John thinks that maybe if he squeezes Sherlock hard enough he can put some life back into him. He can't. "...I can't." »
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 19
Kudos: 34





	You have to let me go

**Author's Note:**

> I cried when I wrote this. I hope you will cry with me too.

"Goodbye John."

_No._

Time seems to stop around John. The woman walking her dog, the bike around the corner of the road, the black car next to him. Frozen. All noises around him suddenly seem to vanish. John's gasp catches in his throat, choking him heavily, a strong hand, invisible, forcefully gripping around his lungs. He can't help but train his eyes on the dark falling shadow. The fall seems to last a short eternity. He doesn't hear it. He can't hear anything. He doesn't know if he should be thankful for it. But he sees it. He sees everything. John is not sure he will ever be able to forget it. A familiar body, a coat he could recognise everywhere. Dark curls. Blood. Too much blood. He doesn't really know how, but suddenly he's on his knees besides the body. Not the body. Not yet. Please. Not yet. Still Sherlock. He thinks that he talks, he's not sure of it. All he can feel is the dizzying nausea threatening to overtake him and the ringing in his ears. He's going into shock. 

With a shaking hand that doesn't feel like his own, he can't help but reach for Sherlock´s pale wrist. How can it feel so cold already? John holds that wrist so hard he could break it. A wrist he held, the night before, as they ran into the night. A hand which took his, the night before, as they ran into the night. Warm. So cold now. Freezing cold. 

John thinks he can feel people trying to take him away but he can't find the strength to let go. 

His left hand reaches for the face in front of him. His best friend's face. He cradles it carefully, a hand carding through the inky hair. He can't help it, he raises Sherlock through his arms, clutching the unmoving form to his chest. How can such an extraordinary human being, the most human human being John has ever met, feel so lifeless? He feels something wet against his thumb. He thinks for a split second that it might be the rain before realising it is a tear. It dawns to him that Sherlock cried. Sherlock never cries. John feels like he is drowning. He can barely see the unmoving shape in his heavily shaking arms. 

He thinks he can feel a soft hand on his shoulder, a touch he knows, a touch he loves. He raises his head to look up, warily, finding himself staring into icy blue eyes. 

He unclenches his jaw and chokes : "You can't do this. You can't. I need you. I need you so much." 

Sirens echo around them. Around him. There is no them anymore. 

He sees more than he feels the whispering ghost of long, pale fingers on his own cheek. 

John's eyes are spilling : "I love you Sherlock. You can't…" 

The answering voice seems already too far away : "I know. I did this for you." 

John presses Sherlock in his arms even closer, burying his face in a glacial neck. He'll always remember this smell he thinks. The rain. The expansive shampoo. A mix of Sherlock and of blood. A mix of Sherlock and of death. 

The deep voice settles closer to his ear as he can hear the ambulances getting closer : "It's time. You have to let me go." 

John thinks that maybe if he squeezes Sherlock hard enough he can put some life back into him. He can't. "...I can't." 

"I know, but I'm gone. My body is cold. I'm not in it anymore." 

John raises his head. He can see the look on his friend's face. The resigned one. That same look they shared when they knew they would die for each other the first time. They were surrounded by water then. Everything seems to be burning now. They were together. Sherlock did this alone. 

John can barely contain the trembling of his weak voice : "But if I keep holding you I can keep you warm." 

"John. It's time to let me go." 

John raises his head again, people seem to have disappeared except for a looming figure in the distance. He can make out what seems to be an umbrella. John isn't sure who he is talking to when he rasps : "Five more minutes?" 

Sherlock settles against him and curls up next to his shoulder. The body in his arms is heavier than ever. 

"Five more minutes." 


End file.
